


The Blooming Flower Drinks the Sun

by moonqueenallura



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9547529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonqueenallura/pseuds/moonqueenallura
Summary: An alternate take on certain aspects of episode 2x05. Or: Isabelle comforts Clary as she grapples with Jocelyn’s death. Comfort and closure lead to something more, something that has been a long time coming.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for both the ship and the fandom overall! I haven't edited this yet so I apologize for any mistakes. Warnings for show spoilers and minor discussions of death.

The last thing Isabelle remembers before her consciousness fades into oblivion is the image of Clary crying, holding on desperately to Simon as if he’s the only one who moors her to reality.

She awakens to the soft sounds of tea being poured and silently adjusts herself, noticing that the healing rune Alec drew on her is fading. Someone - presumably Alec - laid her down on her bed and swept the curtains aside for her, which now let sunlight filter into the room, bathing the bed in a soft, warm glow. Jace is standing beside the table, moving aside gauze and water to mix the tea.

“Jace,” she says, her voice soft and lined with drowsiness.

Jace stills his hands and comes to her at once, open and unabashed relief lining his face. “Izzy,” he replies gently, taking her hands into his. She feels the callouses, the marks of war and time and abuse wearing him thin. Isabelle is suddenly hit with thundering relief. Her brother is back by her side, back where he belongs, away from the clutches of those who would manipulate his tender heart.

“Where’s Alec?” she asks, noticing his absence. Typically, when she and Jace are injured, Alec does not stop to rest, sitting by their side during the night, methodically and fastidiously taking care of them. It is something they do for each other, and most likely, Jace has spent the entire night taking care of Izzy. She notices the bags underneath his eyes, his shaking hands, and wishes for the thousandth time that she was able to protect him.

Jace pauses, mouth settling into a firm line. “Did Clary tell you what happened?”

Isabelle shakes her head as Jace perches on the bed next to her, still holding her hands in his. She recalls Simon doing the same thing for Clary and thinks that Jace needs to sit like this as much for himself as for her. “There’s no easy way to say this, but the demon that invaded the institute possessed Alec and used his body to kill Jocelyn,” he says bluntly.

Isabelle sucks in a deep breath and feels faint. No wonder she hasn’t seen Alec. “Let me guess,” she says coolly. “Valentine sent the demon.”

Jace nods curtly, though his eyes look apologetic. Isabelle pushes herself up, ignoring Jace’s protests that she should lie back down, and looks at him firmly. “Jace. You told me once that what happened to Meliorn wasn’t my fault. Now I’m telling you the same: whatever transpired here tonight, with the demon, with Aldertree, with Jocelyn, is not your fault. It’s not your fault, Jace. It never was,” she says, gazing at him with as much love as she can muster.

Where Jace normally shields his heart using a facade of carefully constructed arrogance and smirks, tonight there is something more sensitive and vulnerable about him. All the soft, malleable, easily wounded parts of him are exposed, laid bare for exposure. And Isabelle knows that he is like this because he is exhausted, the fight in him extinguished to a flicker, that his external bruises do nothing to reflect how scarred he is within. Isabelle feels a hot curl of anger, and vows to herself for the umpteenth time that she will not let Valentine free, that she will not let her enemies harm her brothers or her family or her loved ones again. Not if she can help it.

Jace hangs his head into Isabelle’s open palm and she strokes his hair. Their own mother is in Idris, off preserving her pristine reputation instead of caring for her broken children. It is no matter. Isabelle will take up the mantle of caretaker a thousand times if she has to, if it means that she can have moments of peace with her typically belligerent and detached brother.

Isabelle pauses in her ministrations. “So Alec is probably--”

“--at Magnus’ apartment, yeah,” Jace continues, breath settling, eyes lidded with the lure of sleep. Isabelle has to smile at how well they both know their brother, and at the knowledge that when Alec wants to turn the entire world away, when he wants to harm himself as punishment for things out of his control, he now has someone who will love him as an equal and fight for him daily, someone who will do anything just to make him smile and laugh, and who can reach within his darkest depths to find the light again. One day, both Isabelle and Jace will thank Magnus for everything he’s done for them and for loving Alec, even when Alec cannot stand to look at himself. Isabelle knows, however, that Magnus will wave them away with his characteristic coy and knowing smile, and that to Magnus, loving Alec is not a debt of gratitude but rather an infinite blessing upon them both. She also knows that if she or Jace were to press Alec to return, he would curl in on himself more, perhaps lash out with hot anger, and that leaving him to a wise and loving man who has confronted his own demons is currently the best course of action. For once, Isabelle thinks, it is okay to leave Alec in someone else’s capable hands. When he returns, he will do so with a stronger heart. It does not stop her from worrying about him, but she is reassured by Magnus’ presence in their lives nonetheless.

While Isabelle processes this, Jace’s breathing has evened out. She gently moves him back in the chair, covering him with a blanket that she retrieves from her bedside dresser, and smiles. So doing, she goes back to her own bed and falls asleep again, with thoughts of Clary persisting in her mind.

**

When she wakes up again, she can tell that it’s evening. The lamps cast a soft glow onto her bedding. Jace has left the blanket on the chair, a meal on her bedside table, and a note that informs her that he’s in the training room. It is his subtle way of letting her know that he’s okay but that he just needs some time alone, most likely to process everything that’s happened. Though Isabelle is surprised that Aldertree is letting him roam free, she’s glad that he is. Jace deserves his rest.

Isabelle quickly and carefully eats the meal, her mind focused more on what she needs to do next rather than on the food. She doesn’t feel very hungry but she knows that she needs to regain energy. There is a larger battle on the horizon, one that will inevitably be catalyzed by the Clave’s violent reaction to Valentine’s latest scheme. Isabelle can only hope that the Downworlders aren’t swept up in the tide, though she knows that it is a futile thought.

After she eats, she dresses in some comfortable sweatpants and a gray sweater, not bothering to look elaborate for once. There are no pretenses or need for false impressions between her and Clary. They are honest with each other, and sometimes, Isabelle thinks that Clary is the only one she can open up to. She hopes that Clary sees her through a similar lens. Because when Clary quite literally smashed into her life, she did not just open up a door into odd adventures late into the night. She became someone Isabelle could lean on, someone who faded the monotony of life into exuberance, someone who melted her defenses with something as simple as a smile.

Isabelle deduces where Clary is most likely to be. The last three times she left the Institute, Clary had gone to Luke’s shipyard and then to her art school and then to the City of Bones, where Jace was imprisoned. It is unlikely that Aldertree will let her out of his sight right now, given everything that has happened. Clary would also never leave without paying respects to her mother. Thus, she must be in her room.

Clary has an unfortunate habit of isolating herself when things go to hell, and Isabelle is ashamed to admit that this is due in no small part to how everyone around them loves blaming Clary for things going wrong. Though Clary is not completely innocent, and is prone to making mistakes borne out of emotion and naiveté, she is also one of the strongest, most resilient people Isabelle knows.

She stops outside of Clary’s door and knocks, once, twice, a third time, before she hears a quiet “one second” and steps back, letting Clary open the door. At the sight of her, disheveled, teary-eyed, red-rimmed, Isabelle both softens and aches internally.

“Hey Clary,” she says softly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind her. “How are you holding up?”

She takes in the room before her. Clary’s bed is messy, the pillow dotted with tears. She no doubt spent the night crying herself to sleep (if she slept at all), and something in Isabelle splinters.

Clary doesn’t respond at first, staring off into space as Isabelle sits beside her. Isabelle knows by now that Clary responds to touch. Touch grounds her in reality and reassures her that she won’t fade away into dust. Touch informs her that there are people who will always be there for her, even when she’s mired in doubt and self-loathing.

“I’d be lying if I said I’m fine,” she begins, eyes brimming with tears. If it isn’t so heartbreaking, Isabelle would say that her tears, catching on her eyelashes, softening the color of her eyes from a usually startling emerald to a tender moss green, are beautiful.

Isabelle smiles encouragingly at her. “You don’t have to be fine, Clary. You can be honest with me.”

When Clary hears that, she exhales the tremendous weight of holding her emotions in until now. Tremulously, she opens up. “I thought I’d have more time with her, you know? I just got her back. I went through so much to get her back, I blamed her for everything when I didn’t understand the gravity of all that she’d done for me, all that she’d done to _protect_ me, and now I’ve lost her forever. I can’t help thinking that I should’ve just said yes to Idris. I would do anything to be with her right now.”

By the time she finishes, Clary’s tears have dissolved into outright sobs, and Isabelle can’t take being apart from her any longer. She shifts next to her so that Clary is in her arms, Clary’s head resting on her chest. Slowly, gently, cautiously, she strokes from the top of Clary’s precious curls to her arms, all the way to her wrist, where her thumb rubs hearts into her skin. She thinks that she can whisper the universe into her this way, leave an indelible mark onto her skin so that Clary will have something to remember her by forever.

Gradually, Clary stops shuddering with tears. She looks up at Isabelle, who is smiling down at her. “I’m sorry, Iz. I meant to apologize earlier for injuring you.”

Isabelle shakes her head. “It’s okay. You did what you had to do - we all did. In our world, we have to make difficult decisions very quickly. And even though you haven’t been a Shadowhunter for that long, you’ve adjusted pretty well to it.”

Isabelle knows far too well what it's like making split-second choices between two egregious options.

Perhaps she sees the shadow that flickers quickly before it dies down. Clary reaches out, her right hand encircling her face. She gives her a watery smile. “And I’ve never thanked you for always, always being here for me, Izzy. Honestly, I never would have been able to adjust without you.”

The shadows that threaten to engulf Isabelle whole disintegrate. Exultant, she mirrors Clary’s hands, their faces an inch apart. “I may have helped you, Clary, but the way you’ve grown into this world has been all you. You once told me that Jace is the strongest person you know. But Clary, you’re the strongest person that _I_ know. And that won’t ever change.”

Clary had been a willowy flower trembling on the winter vine when she first met her. She has now blossomed into a rose, prickly thorns and all. Isabelle knows not to fear the thorns as she parts them to reach the rose in the middle. Though Clary is fiery (a trait she shares with Isabelle), she relishes her passion and rejoices in her sweetness. Isabelle, who has unfortunately met selfish people and vile serpents, is eternally grateful that Clary is straightforward where others are deceptive.

They have been smiling at each other endlessly, and Isabelle knows that the night is building to something greater. They’ve been working toward this, ever since that day in the training room when Clary knocked Isabelle onto the ground. She’d gone breathless that day and she is breathless now too. Normally, Isabelle is very confident. She knows she’s beautiful and seductive and flirtatious. But Clary is special. Clary has always been special. Until now, though, Isabelle hasn’t confronted why she’s special. She just knew.

Clary looks at her coyly. “So what are you going to do now, moon goddess?”

Isabelle’s heart stutters at her teasing tone. Without replying, she bridges the inch of distance (astonishing how an inch can mean so much) and begins by kissing each tear that still streams down Clary’s face. One by one by one. Clary utters a soft noise, one of surprised pleasure, and as Isabelle continues she clutches her arms. Once again demonstrating that Clary Fairchild responds to touch the way a flower opens to the sun. Isabelle is teasing the boundaries of Clary’s affinity for affection. What will please her? What will she allow? Isabelle didn’t think she’d be lucky enough to learn her this way so soon. She realizes that at some point, their orbits tangled together. They had no other destination but this.

After she is satisfied with kissing each of Clary’s tears, she moves her lips to Clary’s ears, which bloom a bright pink at the feeling of Isabelle’s breath on them. Something else of note to file away for later: Clary is deliciously sensitive, and no matter how much she fights to tamp down her blush, the bright pink of desire does not fade. “Is this good?”

“Good,” Clary whispers. But by god, has Isabelle always been this starved for affection?

Isabelle stands up, bringing Clary with her. Clary lays down and Isabelle moves to hover on top of her. “Good?”

“Good,” she says, her eyes lidded with anticipation.

Finally, _finally,_ Isabelle moves forward and their lips meet. It is not the crush of sensuousness that she expected it to be, initially, but rather it is the culmination of tragedy woven into flutters of ache and nameless desire. Clary’s lips are full and pink, molding with Isabelle’s as if all they are meant to do is kiss each other. No one else’s lips have ever fit hers the way Clary’s have. It is, of course, cheesy to consider that they were quite literally made for each other, but Isabelle can’t help feel that way right now.

Isabelle pulls back. “Good?” she asks yet again. But she knows from the way Clary’s breathing quickens, it’s more than good.

“Good, good, it’s so good, Isabelle,” she says, arching up into her. Taking this as her cue, Isabelle moves back to take her mouth with her own. Their first kiss was short and sweet. Their second kiss warms Isabelle’s core and drives liquid heat throughout her body. Kissing Clary is being drenched in sunlight, and Isabelle does not want to be anywhere else.

They kiss, and they share a third kiss, and by their fourth kiss Isabelle’s hands are roaming Clary’s perfectly arched shoulders, her smooth arms, moving to her neck which she longs to press her lips to. So she does. Clary gasps at that. “More,” she says, eyes rolling up to heaven.

Isabelle decides that she likes Clary’s pleasure. She likes seeing her writhe in near ecstasy, knowing that it’s her hands, lips, fingers, and teeth bringing her to the brink. So she alternates between painting flowers into Clary’s neck and kissing Clary over and over again. Isabelle doesn’t know if she’s more intoxicated by the arch of Clary’s throat, her bright eyes clouded with passion, or the fullness of her rose lips.

After prying Clary’s sweet lips open for a hotter, more involved kiss, Isabelle breathes onto Clary’s lips, refusing to part from her. “Tell me what you want,” she says while her hands roam Clary’s sides. She moves down and laves kisses onto Clary’s neck.

Clary blushes a bright pink yet again. That pink will color Isabelle’s dreams tonight.

“I want . . . I want to lay by your side, Izzy,” she says, refusing to meet Isabelle’s eyes. That shyness is raw and genuine, and it causes Isabelle to blush in return.

“Yes, yes, yes of course,” she says, moving off of Clary to lay next to her. Clary curls into her then, and Isabelle wraps her arms around Clary’s waist. Clary sighs in content. Isabelle places a kiss on top of her head, a contrast to the past ten minutes of unbridled pleasure. Once the dam has opened, it is impossible to close.

“Thank you for all that you do for me,” Clary says quietly, playing with a strand of Isabelle’s hair. She sounds pensive and sleepy.

Isabelle laughs softly and considers two truths. No one but Clary can make Isabelle this soft and boneless; and no one but Clary can make her feel desperate yet peaceful all at once. Isabelle sometimes feels like she’s a flower in the sun, arching and angling just to get a taste of its light. And she thinks that, perhaps, she can be the moon to Clary’s ocean. Not in the sense that she is fixed and unattainable, but rather in the sense that while Clary is an emboldened ocean most of the time, she is a waveless, becalmed sea around Isabelle. They are prone to rousing, perhaps, hotter and brighter emotions in each other (anger, passion, desire), but Clary keep’s Isabelle’s demons at bay while Isabelle keeps Clary from floating into a fathomless oblivion.

“You’re welcome,” Isabelle whispers. Clary makes a quiet sound of acknowledgement. She is finally serene. Quiescence befalls the room. As sleep (in addition to Isabelle’s warm arms) embraces Clary, Isabelle finally allows herself to relax. Maybe she’ll sleep a bit too before waking up again to face the world.

Tomorrow, hand-in-hand, they will talk about what this means for them, about where they will head going forward.

Tonight, though, Isabelle will value Clary’s golden permanence, and allow herself to dream.  



End file.
